Steven dos Santos - The Sowing

This can’t be happening…

Cassius sighs. “It’s your rejection that forces me to do this, Lucian.”

He looks up at a hovering cam, and then I see his face plastered all over the jumbotrons once again. “Citizens of the Parish, behold. At last I’ve apprehended the terrorist known as the Torch Keeper, Lucian Spark, who has conspired with Talon and her cohorts to destroy us from within. Behold the face of the most insidious of traitors, revealed at last and brought to his knees on this most momentous of days.”

Then I see myself, bloodied and pale, crawling like a wounded animal… and shots of Squawkers on their way to take me into custody, before the screens go dark.

Another wave of anguish wracks me. My back presses against the roof railing and I somehow manage to push myself up. If I’m going to die, I want to do it on my feet and looking Cassius in the eye.

I can barely see from the pain and dizziness and the hot tears streaming from my eyes as I look at the smaller of the two shapes in front of me.

“Cole…” I choke out.

I stagger against the railing, weak, teetering as the cold wind lashes my face.

Cassius’s shadow engulfs me. He grips my head, pulling me close. “I tried to spare you this. But my feelings for you are a liability. You can’t escape your true nature.”

“My true…?”

“The rebellion is lost. Tycho is being purged of his humanity—and his pain—as we speak. And Cole belongs to me now.” He leans in close, his lips brushing against mine and moving to my ear. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he whispers. “Cole isn’t your brother.”

This can’t be true. I’m delirious. I can remember Cole as an infant. His tiny fist clenched around my finger. The anger gives me a final surge of strength. “You’re… lying. Cole is a Spark.”

Cassius’s eyes deadlock with mine. “But you aren’t,” he says calmly. “ You aren’t Lucian Spark. Your true name is Queran Embers.”

Cold envelops me. I no longer know what’s real and what isn’t. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The Sowing Protocol. It’s the method developed by the original settlers of the Parish, who perfected a physics-based cloning system that can replicate a human being at an atomic level. Every single molecule is copied, preserving not only an individual’s physical attributes but also their memories . The cloned embryos were to be implanted in future generations, so they could be reborn again and again, achieving an immortality to rival the Deity—or the Begetter—or whatever one chooses to call it. The entire Recruitment process we both experienced is much less random than it appears.”

My head’s spinning and my body feels like it’s been sucker punched. “No. These are just more of your lies and manipulations.”

He shakes his head. “All this time, you’ve been trying to destroy the Establishment. And the irony is… you are the person that founded it, centuries ago. You built this place, stone by stone, upon the suffering and blood of countless innocents. And now you’ve been reborn, resurrected as a cloned embryo implanted in your mother during a routine medical examination.”

“I don’t want to hear anymore…” I whisper.

His eyes water and a tear streams down his cheek. “All the things I’ve done since I discovered the truth—some of them terrible—were all in an effort to try to crush the Establishment once and for all and save you, the only person I’ve ever truly loved. Even though you are responsible for all this .” His arms reach up toward the turrets and spires of the Citadel, then drop limply to his sides. “But I’m starting to realize I can’t do both.”

It’s too much. I just want to shut my eyes and be swallowed by oblivion.

Beside him, Cole lifts the dagger one more time, aiming for my heart.

I push away from Cassius and tumble over the railing, spinning, flashes of color assault my waning senses, just wanting it all to end in that final darkness—

The impact jolts every nerve ending in my body. I expected death to be infinite blackness and peace. Why hasn’t the pain throbbing inside me stopped?

“Get him inside, quick!” a voice shouts from far away.

That voice is familiar… I’ve heard it many times before… but where…

It’s Arrah.

I open my eyes and make out Arrah, Drusilla, and Cage pulling and dragging me into a coffin… no… it’s a ship… a Squawker…

Then the cold wind stops and I’m inside. A mask is smashed against my face. Oxygen. Someone’s at my side. Cloth swipes my side, white cotton turned red with fire.

“We have to stop the bleeding,” someone—Arrah again—yells.

The last thing I see, through the cabin window, is a formation of Squawkers heading toward us. Our ship veers and banks wildly, around and over buildings… and then we’re heading into the blackest night of my life.

The convoy stretches over the rocky plain like the winding body of a great caterpillar. Battered glide-craft, rebuilt Squawkers cobbled together from discarded parts, and makeshift transports patched with rust all zigzag through the dying night. Even with the creaking from poor shock absorbers and lack of proper lubricants, it’s relatively quiet—considering the thousands of people that are part of this stealth caravan, the remnants of the freedom coalition that have managed to make it out of the Parish.

Cage and Arrah received my transmissions and warned Jeptha, who had just enough time to contact the other resistance cells with warnings and evacuation orders. By the time the first wave of Squawker attacks hit, most of the rebel strongholds were only partially occupied. Still, many were trapped or killed when the squads of Imposers and soldiers sealed the city in the aftermath of Cassius’s coup d’état against Talon and those still loyal to her regime. The clean-up by Cassius’s forces was swift and violent—and fortunately provided enough of a diversion for the rebel survivors to slip from the city limits. Unfortunately, Tristin hasn’t been seen since. Even though she’s probably dead, I find myself uttering a silent prayer to whatever god she believed in to watch over her.

I stare out from the open cockpit of the transport I’m riding in as the first rays of light penetrate that cloak of blackness. With the encroaching dawn, Cassius’s forces will come calling, ready to decimate what’s left of the resistance. Maybe he has his hands full dealing with Sanctum and that’ll buy us some time. In any event, we need to establish a new base of operations soon.

“How’re you feeling?” Arrah asks.

I turn toward her, my fingers tracing the outline of the bandages still plastered to my side. The side where—

I wince. “Still breathing.”

Her eyes narrow, as if she can’t tell whether I’m grateful or bitter.

I’m not so sure which, either.

“Sorry if that patchwork job wasn’t exactly up to standard,” she says. “It’ll probably leave a scar.”

“Yeah. I’m sure it will.”

She hasn’t asked how exactly I got wounded, and I haven’t volunteered to fill in the blanks. Maybe someday we’ll have that conversation. But I can’t. Not now.

The cavalcade begins to wind down into a canyon. The crater’s huge, the walls pockmarked with natural niches that have been reinforced by steel beams and girders. I smile. The resistance coalition has been busy over the years, constructing this ersatz base little by little out of supplies and equipment pilfered from the Establishment’s carefully recorded inventory.

As we descend, I see that hundreds—no, thousands—have already assembled, bustling around, constructing shelters, soldering equipment, distributing meager supplies of food and clothing.